Eavesdropping
by Mads0506
Summary: Takes place after book three. One shot. While separated from her colleagues, Lucy overhears some other agents discussing Lockwood.


**AN: This takes place between books three and four! Spoilers ahead! Please let me know what you think.**

**-Mads **

_Summary: On a rainy day, Lucy finds herself in the archives, where she overhears a conversation about her old colleagues at 35 Portland Row._

* * *

It was a dark and stormy mid-morning when I stumbled inside the Archives. The weather outside was ghastly, carrying with it a torrential downpour that beat on every window in London. It was a cold sort of rain, the kind that brought with it violent gusts which tore through the streets at the most unexpected times, ripping your umbrella from your arms and leaving you to scurry after it in a horribly undignified manner. A fat lot of good it did you once you caught it, too. This was the type of rain that soaked you to the bone after only a moment of exposure, leaving you soggy and chilled to seek shelter in the nearest refuge.

Perhaps it was due to the weather that no one seemed to pay me any mind as I entered, even dripping as I was. True, I was an unfamiliar face, never having been one to enjoy research, but the storm outside seemed a decent enough justification. Seeing that I had gone unnoticed, I crept towards the towering shelves of books, hoping not to catch anyone's eye. Being wet rarely put me in the mood to talk, and I just had to wait until the rain lightened up. If I just looked busy, I figured I might escape notice. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, which were mostly old and frayed at the edges, though new editions peeked out here and there, like a batch of ribbons that had been dropped in a pile of dead grass. My eyes scanned title after title. Some contained eerie references to the stories they told. Others contained only the author's name. Still, the purpose of the section was clear: all of the books were memoirs from agents who had come before me.

I found my thoughts flickering to George Cubbins, my mind shifting like an apparition that dissipated and reformed a few feet down the hall. No doubt he had combed through these memoirs a hundred times over. Unlike me, he didn't need a thunderstorm to drive him into the Archives.

There was an old ache that accompanied the thought, the same persistent ache that always seemed to pop up whenever my thoughts turned to the employees at Lockwood and Co. I'd left them scarcely two months earlier, after I'd lost control of my Talent, after I'd seen the Hollow Boy.

It was all for the better, I knew, and I reminded myself of it as I stood in the midst of the memoirs. I forced myself to stand just a tad straighter, to look like the agent I was. I had left Lockwood and Co. because I was worried about endangering them. I couldn't forget that now. I turned down the next aisle of books, though this new section's purpose was not as immediately clear. I didn't have the time to investigate it before I heard loud, gossipy voices floating through the air from the next aisle over.

I supposed I shouldn't have been too irritated. After all, I heard significantly worse sounds on a nightly basis- the rattling chains of the prison ghost I had helped catch earlier that week certainly came to mind. Still, the shrieks of laughter were jarring, especially in a place as solemn as the Archives. Leaning forward, I was able to see the culprits through a gap in the books. They were a band of Rotwell girls, easily distinguishable by their red uniforms.

The first is hardly worth mentioning. The only reason I even label her as the first is because she stood the closest to me. But, she seemed a lackey more than anything, a wisp of a girl with an overly large mouth that smiled at everything the other's said, without any ability to slip a word in edgewise.

The second was tall, taller than me, no doubt, with a shock of curly red hair that flopped over her forehead in a manner that should have come off as sloppy, but instead was strangely glamorous. She seemed the ringleader of the trio, and she held open a newspaper, allowing the other girls to see the front page.

The third was the prettiest. She had flawless skin and dark hair that fell in one glossy curtain to her mid back. Everything about her was shiny- shiny blue eyes, shiny smile, even the rapier at her waist seemed to glow brighter than her companions'. She wasn't as loud as the redhead, though she commanded much more attention than the wisp. "Ugh, he's so gorgeous," she breathed, seeming almost annoyed by the statement, even as she peered over the redhead's shoulder.

"I know," the redhead whined in response, turning slightly to look at the pretty one. "It's so unfair. Why can't we ever find boys like this at Rotwell's?"

"There's always Weston," the wisp piped up, straining to catch their attention.

The pretty one rolled her eyes. "Weston's cute, but he's such an idiot. If he ever finds any worthwhile piece of information in these old libraries, you can color me surprised. He will certainly never be newspaper material. This," she said, lighting up, gesturing emphatically at the photo on the newspaper, "is Anthony J. Lockwood!"

The redhead nodded in agreement. "He's no Weston, Barbara."

The wisp—Barbara—looked rather put out, but I could scarcely pay attention to her. As soon as they mentioned Lockwood's name, I had felt like my head was knocked askew. A strange emotion bubbled in the pit of my stomach, and I had to talk myself out of stalking around the shelf and snatch the newspaper from their hands.

"Ugh," the pretty one exclaimed again. "I wonder what it would be like to work for him." She had a funny, far off look in her eyes as she considered it.

The redhead snorted and elbowed her, laughing slightly."Yeah, right. I want to do more than just _work_ with him. If I could get him alone for thirty minutes—"

Presumably she finished the sentence, but I wasn't aware of it. In an effort to keep me from doing something I would regret, I'd left, turned around and stalked out into the ceaseless rain that would probably leave me home bound with a cold for the next week. Perhaps it wasn't the sensible thing to do, considering i had no reason for caring what they thought of Lockwood, but I didn't care. Anything—anything—was better than standing there and listening to that trio moon over my old employer, listening to them talk as though they knew Lockwood when I'd worked with him for two years and could never truly claim to.

The rain was just loud enough to drown out my heartbeats.


End file.
